


Child of Andruil

by Vamppeach



Series: Vir Bellan'an: The Way of Eternity [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Vampires, all parties are enthusiastic but sex is under-negotiated, and i know the tag says au but it's absolutely canon compliant. there are just. vampires now., clarification on dubcon, hey there are canonically werewolves running around Thedas! it could happen!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 05:38:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14846813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vamppeach/pseuds/Vamppeach
Summary: One day Andruil grew tired of hunting mortal men and beasts. She began stalking The Forgotten Ones, wicked things that thrive in the abyss. Yet even a god should not linger there, and each time she entered the Void, Andruil suffered longer and longer periods of madness after returning.Andruil put on armor made of the Void, and all forgot her true face. She made weapons of darkness, and plague ate her lands. She howled things meant to be forgotten, and the other gods became fearful Andruil would hunt them in turn.-- Translated from ancient elven found in the Arbor Wilds(originally a oneshot & can still be read as such)





	Child of Andruil

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as me hypothesizing what vampires would be like in the world of Thedas. It uh, got away from me. Please enjoy! I worked really hard on this! 
> 
> Also, I'd like to thank my friend Silver, who is an extremely good beta and who, among other things, ensured a typo did not accidentally remove Mahanon's skin.

Mahanon skirts closer to the campfire, rubbing his hands vigorously to put feeling back in the tips. It's a cold night, especially for the Hinterlands, and Mahanon has had such a hard time keeping warm lately. It's been like this since the conclave: ice in his veins, chilling him to stiffness.  
  
He hasn't eaten in thirteen days.

Exhaustion hovers, but his chattering teeth chase sleep away whenever it draws near. Instead of toss in his bedroll, he huddles near the flame and watches Solas, who is only awake because he volunteered for first watch.  Unlike Mahanon, who huddles as close as he can get, he sits a sensible distance away and watches the sky. Comfortable silence blankets their camp, interrupted only by Cassandra's soft snoring and the pop of burning wood.

A breeze blows smoke westward and the chill sinks deeper into his bones. There’s something on the wind, sweat and something faintly electric, magic, like how his Keeper smells after waking from the Fade, expect it’s Solas, and he smells-

 _Fenedhis._ This silence is not good for him.

“Tell me about the Fade." He says the first thing that comes to mind, for it seems the topic most likely to hold Solas’ interest, and least likely to require Mahanon’s input. He just needs to hear someone talk. Needs something to keep his mind from wandering, that is all.

“What would you like to know?”

“You’re a Dreamer, yes? You must have some interesting tales to tell.”

“You can tell I am a Dreamer?” Solas asks, not defensive or even, necessarily, surprised. Impressed, maybe. He glances at the tents once before continuing, _"_ _Fascinating_. How did you discern this? ”

 _Because you shine like a beacon,_ Mahanon doesn’t say. _I look at you and it is like I am looking at something that does not belong. The Fade clings to you. You smell like the hole in the sky. You are electric and sharp. Standing near you puts me on edge._

Mahanon says none of this, and reaches instead for a half-truth. “My Keeper and our First are both Dreamers, and our clan often takes apprentices. They stay until they learn to dream safely.” The number of Dreamers in his clan-- the beacon they make for spirits kind and unkind-- is more than half the reason Aridhel serves with their clan at all. Not any clan can harbor vampires. Not just any clan _should._ His clan had two, but now he is here and his clan has only Aridhel to provide protection. Dreamless, she is a sentinel against the inexperienced Dreamer. And stronger than any Templar, her presence as a warrior discourages them from interfering.

And so, Mahanon reasons, what he tells Solas is rather close to the truth, if in a roundabout way.

“And surely that speaks to a familiarity beyond that of the average city elf, but it still does not explain how you can recognize such a thing in me on sight.” His voice harbors no suspicion, nor accusation, only open curiosity, his charming thirst for knowledge. Mahanon feels guilty for lying, and so settles on yet another half-truth in hopes that he may satisfy them both. “I suppose you-- that is, you Dreamers-- have a certain bearing in common,”  a certain smell, a certain _feeling_ that draws and repulses in equal measure. Aridhel wondered to him once if this was not a side-effect of their living death, that their spirits gravitate toward the Fade just as strongly as they shy away from it, and that this restlessness of spirit sets their kind on edge when in the presence of mages like Solas. It is as good an explanation as any.

“It is mostly instinct, I’m afraid, as I have known many with talents similar to yours. I wish I could offer you an answer more concrete.”

But as Mahanon thought, Solas smiles and inclines his head with quiet satisfaction, “There is no apology necessary, lethallin. That you can recognize such a talent on sight due to simple familiarity is quite remarkable-” he cuts himself off, though Mahanon did not mind the rambling. It reminds him of clan Lavellan’s First, who thinks aloud in much the same way. “Ah, but forgive me. It seems Cassandra is waking for her watch.”

 

* * *

 

Hunger sits in the hollow of his stomach. It is a deep, chilling thing; his limbs swing heavy, inflexible like steel left in the cold until brittle. Poor circulation, says a clinical voice, sounding a little like his clan’s Lady of the Hunt, who taught him the importance of self-vigilance in people like them-- the importance of staying in control, fed, lest death seep back and sap their strength, their mind.

“That’s well and good,” he laughs out loud, to no one, sounding hysterical even to his own ears; high and strained where his voice is typically clear, so clear it ebbs toward sharpness. But this is a sharpness without purpose, a blade swung blindly, and he hates the sound of it. “But I am the only Dalish here, and there’s no one…”

Excuses.

He walks Haven’s perimeter, getting a sense for his surroundings. It serves a useful escape from the beat of Haven proper, and provides a chance to catch his breath. He comes across a cabin with its hearth cold, and vaguely recalls the apothecary mentioning his predecessor living somewhere out here, before the Conclave went to pieces. Empty now.

Mythal’s mercy, he could kiss the walls. It's no aravel, and has none of the comfort of home, but it’s solitary, so far out that even the campfires seem far-away. A place where he can catch his breath without drowning in the hazy stench of _life_.

With the mark on his hand and the breach in the sky, it seems his position here at Haven will be… long-lasting. He cannot go on like this, cold, starving. He cannot _go on_. Aridhel would tell him-

He pushes the door open. The interior is sparse, housing a few furs, and a bundle of elfroot left drying above the hearth. Its earthy smell clears his head.

-it’s simple. _Suledin_. She’d tell him to survive.

Mahanon sets his pack by the door and hefts his bow. There are rams wandering the outskirts, and he’s subsisted on less than that before. It wasn’t pleasant; he felt weak constantly, and that is to say nothing of the taste, all wet and mildewed like furs in the first rainy weeks of spring. Nugs are tolerable. They taste like dried mushrooms. But they’re hardly substantial, and the sky is ripping apart at the seams. “Ram’s blood,” he grimaces, and sets out to hunt.

 

 

* * *

 

A crash of lightning throws the Avaar fort into momentary brilliance, only for thunder to throw them back into darkness. Mahanon hardly notices, all his attention on dispatching the Avaar warrior blocking his path to the gate controls before that enormous hammer breaks him into pieces.

“Find our soldiers!” he shouts, just as the barbarian’s hammer comes down. The blue brilliance of a barrier flashes around him, flashing even brighter as it works to stop the hammer's descent; it slows, but does not stop. Mahanon cries out, sound lost over the metallic clang of the outer gate slamming shut, but he barely hears any of it over the sickening _crunch_ as bones shatter beneath the hammer’s weight.

Mahanon spins and bites off his next cry of pain as a dagger flies from his hand and buries itself squarely inside a break of armor between the Avaar’s chest plate and neck. Her warcry gurgles into silence; she crumples to the wet stone, her hammer falling harmlessly beside her. Mahanon drops immediately after, unable to support himself on what was surely a shattered leg. Cassandra shouts for Varric to cover her, voice bouncing on wet stone and warbling above the storm from further in the fortress. Broken leg be damned, they still have soldiers to find.

Gritting his teeth, Mahanon gingerly presses his fingers into his injured leg, assessing damage. “ _Fenedhis.”_ Smashed to all hell. He works his fingers further down the bone, clinical and quick despite the stabs of pain. Broken in three places, and fractures down the length. It’s a miracle the bone didn’t shatter completely.  Had it not been for Solas' barrier, it likely would have.

Blood pools beneath the fallen Avaar beside him. Mahanon retrieves his dagger from the warrior’s neck, nostrils flaring. He’s injured, badly. The pool reaches his knees now, slicking red the well-worn leather.

_Suledin. Survive._

Mahanon drops his daggers. With a clarity of focus he plants his hands into the blood, slicking his palms, his fingers, up to his wrists. He presses his hands to his broken leg, and even holding his breath, the heavy scent of blood overpowers the dank of swampwater and storm. His focus narrows until only the stench of blood and pain in his leg, now slowly receding, swim in his awareness. “Andruil’enast-” His hands glow a dim red. Warmth seeps into his aching muscle, his broken bone, knitting back together-

“You’re a _mage_.”

The glow ceases as Mahanon startles to his feet, with only a twinge of pain, a fraction of what it had been and should be. It _was_ Solas’ barrier that saved his leg, so his appearance should come as no surprise, but as Mahanon stands eye to eye with Solas, it is, absurdly, difficult not to feel like a halla smelling a predator on the wind. After all, between the two of them- well.

“You’re mistaken.”

“I am no such thing. Have you forgotten I too am an apostate? I am well familiar with blood magic.” Solas watches him, not with the revulsion most shem and flat ears have toward blood magic, but with interest. Would it that this was only blood magic, Mahanon thinks he might be safe with Solas. Safe telling him about it. Safe telling him at least _something_ , a small part of a truth, that this is not blood magic but a blessing from Andruil...

But open-minded as Solas is, the fact remains: he is a flat-ear, and they are in a swamp, and lives are depending on them. This is the kind of knowledge that could bring death upon the Dalish and the kind of discussion that could bring death upon their soldiers.

“I’m really not.”

Something passes over Solas’ face; it twists in a burst of lightning, and then the expression is gone, with no evidence left to its presence or passing.

“Child, you are lying.”

There are lives waiting for them. “This is not the place to discuss-” dread hardens in his gut, because lying to Solas has always been an exercise in futility. But there are lives waiting for them, “this.”

(A paltry few lives, but lives that rely on him, on them. Their soldiers, _his soldiers,_ and that’s the crux of it: they’re his. His care.)

“Agreed,” Solas says quickly, “But we will be discussing this back at Haven.”

Mahanon nods curtly and straightens his back, head tilting towards the sound of fighting, metal on metal and the pelt of rain. “Haven,” he agrees. There are lives to save.

 

* * *

 

“So the Herald of Andraste is a Dalish blood mage,” Solas says by way of greeting. It pricks like bug bites on his back, a hot irritation, and Mahanon goes rather stiff.  “I wonder what history will say of this, should we survive.” The apostate smiles, far too pleased. Mahanon supposes Solas must find the whole thing terribly ironic. But his loud amusement is dangerous even under the best of circumstances, and deadly, should the wrong pilgrim overhear. It is sometimes easy to forget Solas is a flat-ear, but his lack of caution speaks volumes. The fool fails to understand-- more likely, neglects to care --what destruction such a statement could bring down upon the Dalish.

“History will say nothing.” The tense set of his jaw turns each word into iron. Mahanon nods sharply and pushes past Solas, entering his cabin without another word. Elfroot hangs over the fireplace, a compliment to the elfroot Mahanon has drying over his own hearth. A steady fire warms the interior, filling the room with smoke and the green, stinging scent of elfroot. It’s almost homey, almost enough that he relaxes into the familiar smells.

Solas pulls the door shut on Haven behind him, and the brief spell of calm shatters, leaving Mahanon more anxious than before. He crosses his arm and waits for Solas to sit at his desk, but he makes no move to do so. For a long moment they simply stand and watch each other. There’s a light in Solas’ eyes that Mahanon cannot even pretend to return.

“Forgive me,” Solas starts, and it is a good start indeed, “I could not contain my excitement at learning you are a fellow mage. I forgot the company we keep- I understand your desire for discretion.”

Wry amusement tugs at the corner of his lips. The excitement is-- endearing. Understandable, even, for Mahanon feels the loneliness of being the only Dalish just as keenly as Solas must feel the loneliness of being the only elven apostate within Haven. And for a moment, that sense of isolation is so strong, clenches so tight around his chest, that Mahanon almost spills the truth of what he is.

Well, it’s a nice thought, at least. “You truly are mistaken, hahren.”

Solas' expression drops into something like confusion, but not quite, not yet. Confusion will come, surely, and Mahanon knows not how to appease it other than with the truth. “If you desire my discretion, you already have it-- but I am not mistaken. I saw you use blood magic.” Pity, Mahanon realizes. Solas draws his brow tight in understanding, expect he's wrong, and that might even be funny if the whole thing didn't send a sharp pang deep into his chest.

“I don’t enjoy repeating myself.” This can only go poorly, he thinks, and uncrosses his arms, telegraphing honesty even as honesty is far from his mind, damage control far closer. Healing himself like that was such a stupid risk-- a calculated, stupid risk, measured against the lives of all those lost soldiers, against the picture of their bones crushed beneath hammers like the one that broke his leg. But he should have measured against the lives of every living Dalish beneath an Exalted March. Then the solution would have been obvious, an entire people for a few soldiers, and his choice much wiser. But he must live with the consequences, as must all the People. “I am not a mage.”

And there the friendliness evaporates from Solas’ face at last, realizing Mahanon has no interest in splitting the loneliness of being an elf among humans. “I _saw_ you use blood magic!” Solas speaks in his ordinary, measured tone, but with such intensity he may as well have shouted.

There is no use in arguing, in lying to Solas, who for all his conceit is truly an intelligent, keen, observant man. He knows much of magic, far more than Mahanon himself, who only ever wanted to be a hunter. “I-...Yes. Perhaps. It's more complicated than that.”

Solas looks at him then like he’s a child, pity in his eyes, the same expression he wore when condemning Mahanon’s people for their lack of understanding, for how they play with history like children acting out stories. “Then you are a mage, da’len.”

“I am not!” and it is he who shouts now, not Solas. He shakes with the urge to tear that smug superiority from Solas' face; he wants to throw it back at him and laugh and watch the flat-ear’s expression crumble in confusion at witnessing something, just _one small thing_ , of elves that he does not understand. Mahanon sets his jaw and swallows, nostrils flaring with heavy breaths he takes to calm himself. The green smell of drying elfroot, the sharp white of snow outside-- he can almost pretend he is at home, with the clan, oh Creators forgive him for this conversation. “You laugh at the Dalish, us _children_ , scrambling to maintain a history you say we do not understand-- but what you know of _our_ ways, the _Dalish_ ways, could scarcely fill a breath,” He quiets himself, speaking with the same intensity as Solas, at nearly a whisper. “No, I am not a mage. Yes, you witnessed blood magic,” Creators, Andruil preserve him, but this flat-ear gets beneath his skin, “These things are not mutually exclusive. You should know the truth of our world is not always as it is understood to be.”

“Then explain,” Solas says cooly, “or is this something you would not discuss with a simple flat-ear?”

Mahanon says nothing. It is answer enough.

“Ah, I see. Shall I ask the questions, then? Remove some of the burden? Tell me, if you are not a mage, how did you come to practice blood magic?”

Even knowing Solas wishes nothing to do with the Dalish, with Solas' blunt and frequent reminders of this fact, he still wishes to tell him. Perhaps because of it. “I suppose, when I died.”

Mahanon holds his breath.

“Died? Yet you are not a spirit.”

Wheels, turning.

“No.”

“You have a body.”

“Obviously.”

“And has it always _been_ your body?”

Mahanon wishes the question could sound ridiculous, but he’s seen too much to fault Solas for asking.

“Of course.”

“I see.” Solas crosses his arms, guarding himself in a way Mahanon has never seen before, and he wonders, briefly, if it is the result of Solas' discomfort in realizing he does not, in fact, know all there is to know about magic, nor of their People, or that the Dalish perhaps have their own traditions worth knowing, and it provides a sharp flicker of pleasure in Mahanon’s chest. “Tell me, then, how many lives you’ve taken in preserving this form?”

The flicker goes immediately cold. “Excuse me?”

“I asked, how many lives have you taken? I’ll admit, I did not think your kind would have survived outside Arlathan for so long-- certainly not among the Dalish, but I have been wrong before and I will surely be wrong many more times before my life comes to an end, or the sky takes us all. _T_ _ell me_ , _vampire_ , _how many lives have you taken_?”

A cold fury crashes into him, dousing his senses to numbness at the mere _suggestion_ , the _revolting accusation_ , that he would _kill_ to preserve himself when the protection of life is the foremost of tenets in the Vir Bellan’an that’s been instilled in him since his turning, since before then, when he looked at his clan’s Lady of the Hunt with such wide-eyed reverence. “I don’t have to take this from you.”

“You do when your mere existence here is a danger to myself and every pilgrim living at Haven. Do they know what they bed down next to? How you must look at them as-”

“This is rich- I am _far_ less of a risk to these people than you are!”

Solas at least has the decency to look offended; the first flicker of sensation returns, a stomach-flipping pleasure at offronting Solas even half as much as Solas has just offronted him. Mahanon presses further. “Aren’t you? You’re an elven apostate, who consorts with spirits-”

“And I told you before, I know how to safely interact with spirits. If they tempt me-”

“-it is no more tempting than the way a brightly colored fruit is deliberately tempting you to eat it,” Mahanon finishes, which quiets Solas, for a moment. “Has it not occurred to you that the Dalish have our own methods of interacting with temptation? You insult me. You insult _us_ .” He does not leave space for Solas to respond. “All my life,” the anger bleeds from him, and he sighs, because this is, it is the story of his life, shems and flat-ears making assumptions, “All my life I’ve been a protector, and I was given a gift to help me do that. I am sorry you do not see it that way. Truly.” He heads for the door. “You will not speak of this. You promised me your discretion, and if you breathe any of this to Cassandra-- Creators forbid, if you bring it to _Cullen_ , then Elgarna’an have mercy, for I surely will not.”

The door shuts, quietly, behind him.

 

* * *

 

Mahanon does his best not to slump over their wartable, but they’ve been talking for hours now. He could even handle that, but they’re talking in _circles_ and every time Cullen opens his mouth to defend his old Order, he does so by insulting mages, and Mahanon is _tired_.

Cullen’s heartbeat is especially clear. Labored, as if ill, despite his proclaimed health. Mahanon glances sidelong at the former Templar, bent over the table and focused wholly on his point. Oh, but he’s pale, and Josephine’s candle flickers off his skin, revealing a thin sheen of sweat. As soon as he sees it, the smell assaults him: a sour bile of sickness, and even that holds its own appeal. Acrid, but overwhelmingly _present_ , even alluring. For illness may carry the threat of death, but the threat itself means simply that one is still alive. Cullen is like a beacon, days into his lyrium-sweats, a whole history in the dampness on his skin, and this surely would be interesting, that the Templar has ceased practicing the habits of his order, but Mahanon is too hungry to care, so hungry, and what would Cullen taste like now that he’s off the stuff--

“What do you say, Herald?” Cullen looks at him expectantly. The whole room is staring, actually; Cassandra’s brow draws with concern, and Leliana watches him with open confusion. He can’t afford her scrutiny. Mahanon clears his throat and forces himself to scramble back for the initial purpose of this meeting.

“I cannot put a number to how often my clan was forced to move because Templars harassed us and threatened our mages,” Cullen, to his credit, does not falter even as he looks like death and smells of sickness. At the very least, Cassandra’s choice in Commander is sound, though his opinions unfortunate, and his scope of experience narrow.

“An apostate is an apostate, and a danger-”

Mahanon holds up his hand. “I don’t want excuses. The behavior of Templars was intolerable, and that is to say nothing of your Circles, of which I have heard tales. We cannot send the message that we approve, and that is precisely the kind of message allying with the Templars would send. Wouldn’t you agree, Josephine?”

He, frankly, has no idea how he managed to speak at such length without betraying the severity of his distraction, or its cause. Josephine falters, briefly, before adding to his point, at which point he stops listening and focuses all his attention on not letting himself go cross-eyed with hunger-

Josephine’s perfume is strong, he notes, in a detached sort of way, feeling outside his body. It’s floral. Would she taste the same as clan Lavellan’s crafters? They always smell faintly of lacquer, made from sap that's sweet like her perfume, though heavier.

Andruil guide him. He needs to get out of here. Away from the perfume and the sweat and the four harmonizing heartbeats.

“Excuse me.” He’s fairly certain he just interrupted Cassandra, who blinks at him again with concern on her brow. Mahanon turns without comment and leaves, _flees_. He focuses on his feet, on the snow, on the sting of cold air, all things Aridhel taught him to do when hunger clawed its way inside him.

But he is the Herald of Andraste, and even with his head angled deliberately away, and his eyes fixed solely on the ground, his departure turns heads. Varric and Solas cease their conversation as he passes swiftly by the fire.

Creators, Creators, Andruil, forgive him, but Solas might be right. He’s becoming a danger. Without his clan, who cares for him as he protects them, he’s turned into a point of pain, hunger, the kind of dead thing he was told never to become-

He reaches his cabin and goes immediately for his bow. Hunting. Hunting he knows. The beat of a ram is far safer than the beat of the Inquisition. He can hunt and he can drink dry, and give the furs to the quartermaster, and the bloodless meat to Flissa, and the Inquisition will thank him. He remains a protector, and takes no soul’s blood that would not have him. He turns to leave, to hunt, only to find the door shut, with-

“Solas,” he tries to keep the frustration from his voice, still sore from their last conversation, and eager to put some distance between himself and Haven for a while.

“Mahanon,” he crosses his arms in the doorway, effectively blocking the exit even as his voice is soft with concern, “Are you well?”

“I’m-” _quite well_ , he almost says. But has he not already learned, learned the hard way that lying to Solas is pointless, “It’s none of your concern.”

“It is indeed my concern. You are the best-- indeed, perhaps the only hope of restoring that which threatens us all,” Solas says, moving closer. Surely he must see Mahanon’s posture. How he leans away. How his nostrils flare and pupils narrow and legs lock in place. He looks toward the door, toward the shuttered windows, over Solas’ shoulder: all an exercise in futility, for there is no escape, or at least none that would not end… regrettably. “We cannot afford your distraction. We must maintain your health, for you must be at your best. And therefore-”

“No.” He knows instantly what Solas offers, for he has thought of it before, during the long hours of a night watch. He’s thought of it the way one might idly wonder what it would be like to sleep with an acquaintance; the kind of hypothetical made without intent. The kind of thing desirable only in theory, never in practice. “You don’t know what you offer-- you know nothing of our ways, and certainly nothing of _my_ ways-”

“No?” Solas frowns at him, and Mahanon fights the urge to shrink further than he already has. Like a child admonished. “I am certain your intent is… noble. But we cannot afford that luxury amongst this chaos.”

“This chaos is precisely _why_ I must stay to the Vir Bellan’an. It is not the time to rewrite tradition-- nor would I want to. I don’t expect you to understand.” Solas says nothing, but close as he is, Mahanon watches his mind racing, deconstructing.

“Okay. Then tell me of it.”

Mahanon carefully retains his posture. He is made of stone, made of stone, and his voice is stone, too. “It’s a Dalish tradition. We know what you feel of those-- I will not waste my breath.” The flicker of satisfaction returns, a cool blue flame. This thing, this one small Dalish thing, Solas knows nothing of, knows nothing and wishes to know.

“If we are to come to an arrangement I must know where you are coming from, da’len.”

“An arrangement!” Were his arms not made of stone they would have flown up in frustration, but he remains perfectly still, “I already gave my answer. No. We are not doing this. You’re not doing this. Leave.”

“Mahanon,” The sound of his name from Solas’ mouth has the same cadence of _da’len_ , “I... confess I misjudged you before. I allowed my past--” he stumbles, and Mahanon might find it curious, were he not so hungry, far more distracted than he was even in the close quarters of the war room with Cullen’s sweat and Josephine’s perfume and the sleek metal of Cassandra’s armor. But none of them had been quite so _close_. Solas starts again, “My prejudice obscured my judgement of your character. You’ve proven yourself a disciplined man; in fact I enjoy your company. I am ashamed I did not see so before. Ir abelas.”

Laughter cracks the stone in him. It shakes through his shoulders and down into his chest, dry, slightly hysterical. Of course Solas apologizes _now_. Now that the accusations he made are closer to becoming true than they’ve ever been in his life. Solas was _right_. It is not that Mahanon wishes to kill-- he has never, does not, never will desire death for his own sake. But there’s this _itch_. A dry hungry rasping _itch_.

“You’ve no idea how near I am to tearing your throat out,” he barks, before sense or self-preservation or a lifetime of programmed secrecy can stop the words. “Or Cullen’s. He’s stopped taking lyrium, you know, and he smells--” he makes a strangled sound, “Creators, and her perfume--” babbling madly, maybe Solas will kill him. It should be his clan, but they’re not here-- that’s the problem --so it should be Solas to do it.

“Yet you did not.”

“I _wanted_ to! Solas, I’ve never--” and he says _Solas_ , he says _I’ve_ _never,_ but what he means is _this is the point where Aridhel would kill me_. Mahanon thought he knew hunger. Once Aridhel sent him to the woods away from the clan. To scout, the keeper said. To starve, said his Lady of the Hunt. And he did, and he survived, but he was in the woods but a month, and it’s been three since the conclave exploded, and he’s _so hungry_ -

“Still, Mahanon,” his name rings like a bell, sharpening his mind, barely, but enough, “I would judge you by your actions, not what you wish to do.”

Mahanon swallows over nothing, shaking. He’s not acted on it, but he _wants_ to, and isn’t that enough, isn’t that damning enough?

Solas smells so good.

“Before your time at Haven, I understand there were-- volunteers. I shall volunteer in their stead.”

His fingers tighten in Solas' tunic. “What?” But of course he knows exactly what Solas means.

“You are separated from your clan, Mahanon,” his name again; Solas knows, has to know, how it rings like a bell above his thoughts, forms a point of order within the chaos. Solas is close, and Mahanon isn’t sure which of them closed the distance, only that his fingers ache from gripping him so tightly, “And you are right not to trust the others with the truth of what you are. I even see the wisdom in keeping it from me. But unless we casually uproot your entire clan and bring them here to Haven, this is your only option beyond starvation.”

“No, I…” he finds no more refusal. The Fade hovers heavy around Solas, unsettling, otherwordly, a green oppressive haze; it makes him shudder, equal parts fear and want. He smells of magic. He smells so good.  Composure finds him slowly; a far away thing that he approaches by inches. Controls his breathing, first. Filters out the campfires nearer to the core of Haven, the close sting of drying elfroot, the closer smell of Solas.

Aridhel speaks soothingly in his ear, the way she guided him through his first fit of hunger -- _blood flows the way magic flows, and I know you want to be a part of it, I know it’s hard. You can be part of it, but do not drown._ Mahanon rids himself of every thought but that, until he is empty and buoyant. He is not made of stone. Solas smells so _good_ and Mahanon floats above it.

One more breath to steady himself, then he opens his eyes (when did they close?) and says, “Did you bring a knife?”

“You require a knife?”

He straightens his posture now that his mind is-- not clear, he is hungry, Solas smells _so good_. But clearer than it was. He retrieves his fingers from Solas’ shirt, along with what remains of his dignity, and ignores the way his knuckles ache at being suddenly relaxed. “You approached me with purpose, did you not?” Solas quirks his lips, wordlessly admitting that yes, he had. “I thought perhaps you brought supplies.”

“I did not think a blade is necessary,” he sounds genuinely dismayed, though whether a result of believing he’d come unprepared, or something else, he could not say-- and dare not speculate. “Is that the custom?”

“It can be.”

Solas inclines his head to the side, keen and watchful and clearly not pleased with his avoidance. Mahanon sighs.

“No, it’s not the custom-- though it is done, I suppose. I thought it might make you more comfortable, that is all.”

Solas laughs, a warm chuckle, and Mahanon is so taken off guard that for a moment, he entertains the possibility that Solas’ consorting with spirits really has drove him mad this time. “Your consideration is appreciated, but I assure you I would not have made the offer was I unprepared to endure all that it entails.”

Endure. “It’s not unpleasant,” he says quickly, wincing at himself, but continues anyway, “Truly. It is strange, at first, but not unpleasant.”

“You’ve experienced it yourself then?”

“Of course.” Solas seems genuinely taken aback-- then, by inches, genuinely interested. It is the first time he’s shown interest in a topic Mahanon feels knowledgeable in, and with a warm sense of satisfaction, he continues, “Not more than a handful of times. Aridhel, she is a private woman. When possible, she took from her lover. But sometimes it was not possible, or she required more-- I volunteered.” Back straight, chin tilted, his pride manifests bodily. Aridhel protects their clan, and he was proud to help, in that one small way. “It’s,” _nice_ , he almost says, but somehow that seems worse than saying it hurts, “It's really quite ordinary. Strange at first. It passes.” Not quite true. It is never ordinary, on either side of the exchange, but there was no harm in letting Solas believe that it _could_ be. “I want you to be comfortable.” It’s becoming a bit of a mantra, but he means it, he _means_ it.

“And that is a comfort. But I know you now, Lethallin. I’ve no dislike of you, and am at terms with what you are,” Solas touches his arm, innocuous and friendly and it sends a shiver up his spine, “You've unique needs, and I assure you again, I would not offer to aid them if I was not already comfortable.” As if to emphasize this, Solas undoes the lacing of his tunic and wordlessly removes the garment, casually setting it beside him.

Mahanon blanks. Seeing bare skin makes the offer _real_ , makes the blood _real,_ not just a hypothetical but a tangible thing well within reach; his head summersaults between _stay still_ and _wait for permission_ and a renewed, wordless urge to lurch forward and pin Solas beneath him, to use his warrior’s weight against the mage’s lithe grace, to hold him down and _take_ . Mahanon stills; he doesn’t even _want_ that, not _really_ , but the urge lurks under his skin, horrifying him, oh creators, he’s never _been_ so hungry, and he’s beginning to understand, fully, what Aridhel meant when she said hunger saps their minds.

“Are you waiting for an invitation?” Solas cuts above his body’s traitorous noise; a welcome distraction and Mahanon clings to his voice, even as meaning comes slowly.

When it sinks in, Mahanon blinks at their inanity. “Yes?”

“Ah,” Solas laughs again, crossing to what’s become Mahanon’s bed and settling casually atop it. “Then you have my permission, my invitation, and whatever else you require.”

Laughter slips from his chest in kind, all his tension following behind. For the first time since entering the war room-- since before then, truly --Mahanon’s shoulders fall where they should, instead of drawn tight toward his spine. Dread, ever-present, remains a cold stone in his stomach as he follows Solas across the cabin, but it is a small thing, growing smaller.

“I appreciate it.” Strain still turns his voice low, raspy, but it terrifies him less. “Shall we?”

“By all means.” Solas shuts his eyes and settles with his back against the wall, long legs hanging off the bed. His breathing, which had never sped with anxiety like his own, slows, slows to such a degree that were they not just speaking, he’d swear Solas is asleep. His body is all soft curves, no tension in his muscles or sweat in the air, only the Fade, elfroot and skin. When Mahanon shifts, Solas does not flinch. He finds himself relaxing in response, comfitted by Solas’ ease.

Mahanon allows his mind to quiet, lets instinct guide him above Solas’ lap, direct his chin into the curve of Solas’ neck. “Thank you,” he says quietly, and bites.

A soft noise breaks from his throat as relief, instantaneous relief washes over him, dizzying relief, a chorus of _thank you_ of _finally finally finally._ He bites deeper and Solas bursts over his tongue, so full of magic it _stings,_  electric and sharp and everything Solas is, but concentrated, _more_.

The following moments come to him in pieces: Settling fully in Solas’ lap, bracketing him in place; a hand on the curve of his jaw, caressing; Solas shifting; his hips, moving. Moaning. Doesn’t matter who. The rush of power, of being full, being _part_ of something he’d all but forgotten he could be a part of at all. The mark thrums with Solas’ heartbeat, down into his toes; small, electric tremors, so good, so _good_. Feeding never felt quite like this before.

He breaks away with a gasp, aftershocks rushing through him as the mark casts green shadow on the walls. Moaning weakly, he slumps forward, as if he was the one bled. Blood smears down his chin, down the side of Solas’ neck, so Mahanon cleans what he can with his tongue. For the moment he feels shameless, though dimly he knows the feeling will soon fade. Slowly, he collects himself, and as he does their surroundings fade back into clarity: the cabin walls, campfire smoke, Solas warm beneath him.

“Solas?” Though panting, his voice sounds the clearest it has for days, and he’s Solas to thank for that.

“What is it?” Solas replies immediately, but the words themselves are slow. The two of them press so close that Mahanon feels the response rumble against him.

“Making sure you’re awake.”

“Ah.”

They lapse back into silence, Mahanon’s face still resting in the crook of Solas’s neck. Blood drips down his chin, soaks into the collar of his shirt, yet he’s loathe to pull away. Solas made the offer to bleed once, but there is no guarantee he will offer again, or if he does, no guarantee of when the offer will come. Mahanon does not want this moment to end, for fear he will not have another.

But they cannot stay like this forever, and as Mahanon regains his composure, he sees no reason to remain. He slowly disentangles himself and lifts from Solas’ lap, wiping the last remnants of blood from his chin.

Solas takes him by the arm and pulls, so unexpected that he follows the tug unresisting, until Solas yanks hard enough to unbalance him. He tumbles to the bed, and in the confusion, Solas pins him in a casual display of strength; it is hardly graceful. It is more than that. It is-

Mahanon sucks in a breath. Heat washes through him, heat that has nothing to do with being comfortably fed, everything to do with how Solas sits above him, _predatory._ Every inch the animal Solas once deigned to call him. A groan startles from deep within his chest. It’s been a long time since he's been made to feel this way: made to feel small, at the mercy of another. Solas brackets him to the bed with his thighs, arousal digging hard into his stomach.

“This is a poor idea,” Solas says, as if _he_ was not the one who prevented Mahanon from leaving the bed.

Instead of responding, Mahanon licks Solas from his lips, eyes shuttering. He's not starved anymore; his mind is mostly his own, so he can finally focus on the taste of it, the joy of it.  

“Yet _you_ are on top of _me._ ”

Solas chuckles. Not like his earlier laughter, which stole tension from the room; it comes from someplace deeper in his chest, sends a shiver down Mahanon’s spine. “So I am.”

He places a palm over Mahanon’s heart and strokes downward to the first of his buttons, undoes them one by one.

“I want you to know, I’m not in the habit of bedding the people who bleed for me.”

“And I, not in the habit of bedding vampires,” he doesn’t miss a beat, and continues with the buttons, unhurried even as want glows behind his eyes, digs into Mahanon’s stomach. “Not even those I allow to drink my blood.”

Solas moves with purpose, in control of every gesture. Power bleeds from him. Not power like his magic, though that is there too, a thick blanket haloing around him. Rather, Solas is clearly a man accustomed to being in control, a man accustomed to being obeyed. Mahanon wonders why he never saw it before-- he saw only the apostate, self-assured but happy to exist in the background, offering counsel, nothing more. The man poised above him wields authority with ease, like he was born for it. Where could an apostate learn such a manner? One does not emerge from the wilds with the comportment of a man made to rule other men. It is learned. And Solas learned, somewhere.

The last of his buttons comes undone. He parts the cloth, moves to touch bare chest and Mahanon makes no move to stop him, so Solas touches. His head spins.

“But?”

Solas smiles down at him. “But I would very much like to bed _you._ ”

Without warning, wandering fingers turn to nails against his chest and _drag_ , four long scratches from navel to nipples. Mahanon bucks forward; to get away from the sudden jolt of pain, to press toward it, to thrust into Solas’ weight, for _something._  Solas laughs again, low and pleased and Mahanon is fairly certain that amongst all his earlier fretting, his every _are you certain_ and _are you comfortable_ , Solas was perhaps the one angling for this all along.

_“Solas.”_

Solas returns to merely stroking, as if there aren’t red streaks blooming on on his chest, as if he isn’t shuddering and hard and losing every shred of composure blood allowed him to regain.

“What is it, da’len?” he sounds absolutely pleasant, content and put together. Mahanon opens his mouth to respond, and Solas pinches a nipple.

 _“Fenedhis,"_ he swears, then bursts into slightly broken laughter. “Is that how you’re playing this?”

“It is how I usually play, yes.”

_Oh._

His hand turns back to a caress, smoothing over the scratches then thumbing over his nipple, deceivingly gentle and Mahanon knows better at this point but his body believes, and stretches into the touch. “You’re full of surprises,” he laughs again, more breathless than he has any right to be.

“None so great as vampirism, I assure you.”

“Fair point,” he concedes, but something about Solas” comment eats at him, something that should have eaten at him since the beginning. And he might be turned on, but his mind is sharper now, with the blood. Solas’ comment tumbles rapidly toward _something,_ but doesn't quiet arrive. “How do you know of vampires? We don’t reflect in the Fade-- blood magic, you understand,” for practicing blood magic obscures you to the Fade, as Solas well knows, and Mahanon’s kind subsist entirely on the blood of others. “You said you did not expect to see us living outside Arlathan.”

Solas chooses that moment to lean down and kiss him. Mahanon’s mouth still tastes of blood, heavy and sharp and _good_ . But without pause Solas rolls his hips and kisses _hard,_ hungry, licks into his mouth and bites his bottom lip, an implication of teeth-- a promise, maybe. He pulls away slow, eyes lidded, heavy. “I think you should stop talking.”

Mahanon takes the opportunity to kiss back. He licks at Solas’s mouth: insistent, bloody. Solas wants to stop talking, fine. But Mahanon will not go easily. He prods with purpose, nips and grapples to control their pace-- but Solas pushes back, _more_ purposeful, _more_ insistent. He casually turns the pace quick and unforgiving, as if Mahanon’s attempt at assertion is endearing, but easily disregarded. Solas palms him through the kiss, just this side of painful -- _playing dirty --_ and hungrily swallows the resulting groan. Want, a different kind of want but want nonetheless, slithers back into his mind, heavy and opaque, obscuring his thoughts and any sense they might impress upon him. In their place is Solas; want, swallowing every inch of him. He sinks, barely above it. Then Solas rakes his nails over a hardened nipple, squeezes his erection, too much, too hard, and Mahanon plunges willfully into his hands. He is _gone._  In his place: a thing of _want_ of _instinct_ of _blood._

“This is not a condition,” Solas tells him, as serious as a man can be while gripping another man through his clothes. “You require blood, and you will have it.”

He shudders, half at the promise of blood, more blood, Solas’ blood thick with green shocks of power. Half at Solas’ other hand, which turns once more to soft caress. Solas plays fucking dirty, and Mahanon does not care.

“It is, however, an enjoyable side benefit.”

And Mahanon might have opened his mouth to respond, but if he did, his response evaporates into a sharp gasp as Solas swiftly pulls Mahanon’s pants to his knees, leaving him exposed to the cold mountain air. Gasp turns to moan as Solas brushes, barely, over the sensitive head. Sensation has him like a riptide, pulls him _down_ , down, he drowns. Blood and instinct and desire swallow every word, all his thought. Solas could get him to his knees with a word; caught in the undertow, Mahanon, thoughtlessly, would obey.

Solas strokes him base to tip, carelessly tight-- no, purposefully tight --a brief scrape of nails at the tip that has Mahanon tossing his head, moaning, hissing-- then Solas is gone. “Lie still,” Solas tells him, and lifts from the bed. He obeys.

Eyes fixed on the ceiling, Mahanon listens as Solas crossed the room and begins sifting through old tinctures and tins, lifting each to his eye before moving on to the next. Takes his time, giving Mahanon the space to feel how _desperate_ he is, as if he didn’t already know, feel it down into his toes. And he _knows_ what Solas is looking for; anticipation grips his chest, choking and delicious in equal measure. He lifts his hips and starts the process of removing his clothes in full, loathe to waste time, he is _desperate,_  he knows it, Solas knows it, has already seen him ready to break so what’s the shame in eagerness.

“Can you not lie still da’len?”

The diminutive sends a second unexpected rush of arousal down his spine, even as it leaves him feeling chastised. It’s been a long time since someone’s made him feel that, too. Like a child admonished. Solas makes him feel so _much_ . His head clears, just a bit, just _enough;_  he asks, doing his best to retain a smirk, but it falls a little flat, and he’s left feeling like a child trying to play it cool. “Is that a requirement?”  

“No,” Solas keeps looking through the alchemist’s shelves. “But I would enjoy it.”

Mahanon lays still.

Solas strokes a hand over his ribs; Mahanon jumps, unaware he’d come so close, then shudders when he says, voice pitched to something that grips tight at Mahanon’s belly, “Very good.”

“You sound like-” he laughs, breathy, maybe not quite all there, maybe floating, just a bit, “like you’re scolding me.”

“Is that a problem?”

It’s kind of ridiculous how much it is _not_ a problem. The opposite of a problem. Mahanon shakes his head. “How do you want me hahren?” he says by way of answer, and warms beneath Solas’ approving gaze.

For a moment Solas says nothing, does nothing. He simply looks, fingers warm and unmoving over Mahanon’s ribs. Slowly, they trail to his shoulder, push at the fabric. “Let’s remove this, to start.” And he can scarcely move fast enough. It’s warm in the cabin, and Solas is warm, and the new blood is warm, too. His shirt pushes that warmth to overheating. Removing it is a relief; Solas’ gaze, a welcome pleasure.

“Now on your belly.”

Mahanon rolls over without question, but without Solas in his line of sight, the warmth cools into a shudder, “I do hope I will not be the only one naked.” Nervously, he tries to fill the silence. “It seems hardly fair.”

A hand, warm pressure at the base of his spine, gentle but insistent until Mahanon bows his back. When Solas speaks, his breath warms the back of his neck; far closer than he pictured. “In time. Have patience-- make use of the control you have so much of, hm?” He punctuates this with a nip to his neck: two steps down from gentle, enough to sting and then the sensation leaves along with the hand on his back. Mahanon remains in place, arms propped beneath him, back bowed and pants restricting his knees from spreading further. He wants them off, wants Solas’ clothes off too; the last few months have swallowed up the last of his patience and he _wants._

Solas opens the tin; Mahanon flinches, senses over-sharp, but Creators, he could never mistake that sound, like plucking a steel string tight across his back. The next thing he’s aware of is Solas gripping his hip, then fingers lower still, and it’s been a long time since someone’s made him feel like this, but Mahanon knows what to do. He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly as Solas pushes his finger in, and in the same way that seeing Solas shirtless made his offer of blood real, so does this suddenly become _real._ “Another,” he urges, because, again, Solas has already seen him breaking, so what’s the shame in a little eagerness. He is a thing of instinct and blood and want coaxed into existence at Solas’ behest. He’s ready.

“Patience,” Solas says into the shell of his ear, blanketing him. It’s become a bit of a mantra, _be still, have patience_ , not directions Mahanon likes to hear. Solas removes his finger despite his call for patience, then Solas returns with two, and then a third in quick succession. Mahanon jolts, but there’s nowhere to go, so the movement becomes an uncontrollable exercise in futility that ends in him pushing back harder than before, nerves singing at the stretch of it, and he would have moved _more_ , but his pants are still down around his knees, restricting. He should expect Solas’ oscillation between gentleness and pain, yet it continues to surprise, still sends bolts through his spine.

_"Bastard."_

“Not hahren this time?”

His laughter turns to choking when Solas angles his fingers down, bends them at the knuckle and _presses_ , not the smooth, pleasurable glide he’s come to expect of lovers but a steady pressure, _unrelenting_ , he gasps for air then stops gasping and squirms, hand going round to grip at Solas’ thigh in desperation for something, anything to hold onto. Solas simply laughs, presses just _that_ much harder, before his fingers slip easily away.

_"Please."_

Solas makes a sound of acknowledgment and squeezes his hip, assurance and admonishment all at once: _Be still, have patience,_  while his brain sticks on an endless repeat of _do it do it do it._  Solas’ hands shift, one steadying at his hip, the other brushing lower, guiding, _oh creators._

The stretch pushes a groan from his chest; he’s well prepared but it’s been so long, so long since someone’s made him feel like this. Solas’ guiding hand comes to rest at the back of his spine, pressing gently like it had before, pressing him in place as if Mahanon even _wants_ to change position now. Even when Solas is fully seated, the hand at his back remains, and Mahanon wonders if maybe Solas just likes it there, likes knowing he directed and Mahanon obeyed.

“Move?” he’s out of breath, thinking in monosyllabics, things like _want_ and _please_ and _move_ ; he fully expects Solas to laugh, to tell him _patience_ , but instead he does just that. The hand on his back slides upward to the back of his neck, gripping tight, affording better leverage, and Solas moves. Mahanon might whisper _yes,_  but he’s not sure and it doesn’t matter, because Solas finds a pace easily, drags almost to the tip and thrusts forward with more force than he expected. It’s slow, and torturous, and the hard thrusts _ache,_ but never unpleasantly. A good ache. An ache that settles down into his stomach and grips.

He gets a hand out from pinned beneath his chest and reaches toward himself, but a sharp thrust stalls his movement and the hand on his hip is suddenly pulling at his wrist. Solas coaxes out from under him and guides Mahanon’s hand to the back of his own head. He holds it there for a while, hand on top of hand, the other still gripping the back of his neck; the leverage is so _good_ he forgets to feel annoyed and curls his toes instead.

After that, Mahanon settles into the rhythm, chest flush against the bed, hands on the back of his head, he lays down and takes it, moans and gasps, maybe whimpers. He empties himself and floats atop it all.

Fingers push at his lips. He opens without thought, sucks dutifully when Solas pushes them inside. At first shallow and accommodating, their pace adjusts to match with his thrusts, slow, deep- Mahanon chokes, eyes rolling, his body tenses and behind him Solas groans, rhythm stuttering. That alone has Mahanon moaning in kind, for Solas, he’s found, makes little sound. Every gasp is a tiny victory, every moan tightens the tension in his belly, edges him _closer_ . Solas’ fingers push harder, _drag,_ trace the contours of his teeth and then fang and the skin splits and-- Mahanon shorts out, certain he makes some kind of whimper, but unaware of anything but _this._

He bites a little harder, testing boundaries; the fingers remain. Blood in his mouth a hand on his hips, Solas fucking into him with unsteady thrusts. Close. Reckless, Mahanon lifts a hand from where it’s stayed falling asleep at the back of his head and fumbles for Solas’ arm. He grabs it tight and pulls until Solas’ wrist lay at his mouth; a bigger vein, a brighter burst, blood coats his tongue slides down down his chin and- and Solas’ hand lifts from the back of his neck, teeth falling on him in its place, Solas bites him back and-

The next few moments arrive in pieces: Solas panting in his ear, breath overhot and wet; a sudden chill, Solas lifting from the bed; a wet cloth wiping over fresh scratches that Mahanon doesn’t remember getting, a particular amount of attention paid to the back of his neck. It takes until Solas is finished washing for Mahanon to remember he even has limbs, several long moments to remember he can move them. Control returns by inches, and the first thing he does is shove his pants off completely.

“Uncomfortable?” Solas laughs, his voice husky with strain, and were not Mahanon entirely sated and spent, the sound might stir him again.

“Not really,” he says thoughtfully. He hadn’t minded; on the contrary. “But I like being able to move.” Yet Mahanon moves only to stretch himself out more comfortably, on his stomach with his head tilted sideways toward Solas’ naked thigh. A pity he did not have the opportunity to watch Solas shed his leggings, a greater pity he’s too spent to appreciate the picture now. Perhaps next time.

“I see,” Solas strokes his thigh absently and stares at the alchemist’s shelves. Following his gaze, Mahanon notices they’ve been thoroughly rearranged, and huffs in amusement. “That is good.”

They lapse into silence; the fireplace has dimmed to embers, casting them both in a sleepy orange glow. Mahanon thinks he could get used to this, and already finds himself wanting to.

“Should you require more…”

“More blood or more sex?” he jokes, feeling comfortable and loose, full, something like _companionship_ warm in his veins.

But something comes over Solas’ face that cuts into him, brings a chill he wants so desperately to shrug off. “Just the blood would be kinder.” He brushes over Mahanon’s arm, traces the marks that Mahanon cannot remember making, but in a moment of overwhelming sensation he must have, because those are fang marks, that is his blood. Without thinking Mahanon leans into the touch, and Solas pauses for a moment, but does not draw away. It seems like answer enough.

“Should you desire companionship-- of any kind --my door is open.” Longing colors his voice, and Solas has already seen him begging, so what’s the harm in this? “I sleep little, and I enjoy your company. With or without sex,” he kisses the side of Solas’ jaw, delighting at the way Solas leans into him, “Although... It is a welcome side benefit.”

**Author's Note:**

> [hey! there's art! it's gorgeous! check it out](https://kinksprite.tumblr.com/post/175240894774/fanart-for-vamppeach-s-excellent-vampire) (link is, ofc, nsfw)


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